


seeking solace under the midnight sun

by mirabilis



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Canon Compliant, Character Study, Future Fic, Getting Together, M/M, Post-Canon, Slow Burn, hinata is so oblivious that you wanna shove a nerf gun up your nose, the ultimate miya bro's fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-08
Updated: 2020-06-08
Packaged: 2021-03-04 01:01:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,441
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24605089
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mirabilis/pseuds/mirabilis
Summary: Hinata Shouyou with his unpredictability is a triple-edged sword piercing through your hands, slicing up your vertebra and tearing you in half. Excalibur illuminates in pure admonishment, golden in the eyes of the beholder, but to you, it's defeat.
Relationships: Hinata Shouyou/Miya Atsumu
Comments: 16
Kudos: 95





	seeking solace under the midnight sun

**Author's Note:**

> hello! i am back. it's been a shortwhile,, but i am here for atushina week... 
> 
> atsuhina day 1: future au
> 
> cw: cussing, bro moments, alcohol(a little), also whats in parentheses and dialouge are techinically flashbacks 
> 
> I hope you enjoy and for now, goodbye

Atsumu calls it insurance. Osamu calls it pitiful.

He remembers the last moments like the back of his hand, only his hands concave to dismissively fit a yellow, blue ball of circling purity that banishes all monsters under the bed. Four fingers spread evenly to press along the fabricated edges that make the ball close to his reach almost seem real. He lied. It wasn't the last few moments, per say his high school career, but it sure as hell did feel like it. His palm solidly imprinting the curves of the atmosphere that he may or may not have secret ties to. But that all together is a sacred negotiation between him and the court.

It's actually the last moments of his high school career that cause his mind to hit the red button. You are taught relentlessly to never touch the red button, but you are so cushioned and anchored by curiosity that you lose sight.

You call it insurance, that's another lie. But who's counting?

Hinata Shouyou is the regular news reporter delivering your defeat. Weather forecasts predict a raging storm on the east coast, cancel all plans and be prepared for anything. Well fuck you, he snaps, you didn't warn me of you. Hinata Shouyou with his unpredictability is a triple-edged sword piercing through your hands, slicing up your vertebra and tearing you in half. Excalibur illuminates in pure admonishment, golden in the eyes of the beholder, but to you, it's defeat.

Osamu calls it pitiful. Calls him pitiful, and for once, he doesn't argue.

*

Where did he go after all these years? He throttles himself for leaving Hyogo the moment he receives his diploma, he doesn't regret it though. His parents would've loved to see him take over the family business and continue to Miya Industry in their cookie-cutter hometown. But almost immediately after his summer begins, he's scouted by colleges and eventually he somehow gets recruited to a division one team. His parents are proud, Osamu tackles him, and tells him to remember his name when he becomes famous. Fuck no, he replies.

You are elated along a river of entry points, exiting and twisting through a durable future. He reunites with Sakusa. Which is fantastic, to neither of them. They're roommates, and he learns Sakusa's skin routine and they wear face masks after long taxing practices and sit in the living room five feet apart. Bromance is that they call it these days right?

Atsumu however is unfortunate to encounter Bokuto Koutarou from Fukurodani, it really proves how much the universe is wagering on his torture and pain. They get along somewhat. He visits his apartment too much, sneaks in to steal strawberry pop tarts from their shelves. Sakusa swears he won't let him in. And yet he leaves the door unlocked. It's like he's begging on his knees for an axe murder to enter their apartment and chop them into small pieces and throw their discarded bodies into a garbage can.

"Don't be stupid."

That's his only response upon Atsumu exaggeration of what a typical Friday night could be like.

"But it's true Omi-kun."

Sakusa looks up from his self-pedicure. It was ten dollars off of Ebay. "You. Are a complete fucking dumbass."

But this doesn't answer the true question that's teasing the lower-side of his jaw, where was Hinata Shouyou after all these years? After high school, he sets off for Brazil. Then from there he mysteriously disappears to be one with nature or whatever the fuck that Tobio-kun said he went, it might've been the fucking Sahara desert for all knew.

Though he does find his Instagram, eight months later. There's not much, only a few poor quality selfies. He finds one photo of Shouyou that irritably sticks with him. He sits on the sandy beach at sunset, the sun rolling like the Aston Martin his father brought home on his, and Osamu's seventeenth birthday. The sun polishes the blemishes of freckles that sparkle on his forehead like shiners and a smile that could bring the dead back to live and wish they met Hinata Shouyou in the flesh.

Sakusa peers behind him, two pink hair clips tying the drooling strands of hair constantly cutting off his vision. He squints, disgust pacing between Atsumu and the photo. "Don't tell me you're stalking him already."

"It's research."

Sakusa squints more. At Atsumu's sheer stupidity most likely. "I'm going to vomit."

*

"I don't remember giving you the keys to our apartment." Atsumu says, when Bokuto comes stumbling inside like a herd of sheep. Bokuto who is still in his pajama pants and wearing a gray owl rhinestones onesie. At least pretend you're an adult.

Bokuto looks at Atsumu. Looks down and continues through the doors of their apartment. "Sakusa gave it to me."

"Right. And the president bought me Mount Fuji."

"You can't buy a mountain."

"Fucking humor me will ya."

Sakusa emerges from his manly cave of hell diffused with lemongrass febreeze. Upon Bokuto's entrance, Sakusa is unseeingly amused. Should he ask?

"It's too early in the morning to be this loud."

Bokuto lights up like a fucking Christmas tree, the one his family used to take him to during the holiday time and they would drink hot chocolate too hot for his tongue and ice skate until his ankles swell and Osamu develops frost bite on his nose. Sakusa pays no attention. He is also concerned about the decreasing population of Bees. That should answer your question.

Atsumu throws an apple. Bokuto catches it. With his face. The apple is bravely sacrificed in the ultimate battle against the dimples of Bokuto's face. He reminds himself to have a burial ceremony for the apple who lost but will always be remembered in their hearts. 

"Eat yer damn apple and stop coming in without consent."

Bokuto's dimples lose their frilly touch, and a frown surfaces. "Consent?"

"Yes. Look it up in the fucking thesaurus."

"Dictionary." Sakusa corrects. He helps himself to the last slice of Caramel Apple pie lying in the pink confectionery box in the middle of their kitchen island. You're not being helpful whatsoever.

“Same exact thing.” Atsumu retorts. 

Bokuto's frown grows deeper and taps his chin and actually pretends to look like Albert Einstein and just discovered the theory of relativity. "Hey, 'Tsum-Tsum?"

Atsumu steals a slice of Caramel Apple Pie, which is fucking delicious, did God deliver the dessert on their doorstep when he was praying for a new way to find world dominance one night? "What?"

"Shouyou-kun is returning from Brazil." He pauses. Atsumu does. You know, when his throat closes up unintentionally and a few hundred crumbs get stuck. "Coach offered him a spot here, in Japan."

Atsumu continues to struggle to find his words. Because he's choking to death. Bokuto looks almost concerned. Sakusa has a stare that's screaming 'karma' and doesn't even offer a helping hand.

He has the worst friends. Fuck that, the worst teammates in the world.

*

Osamu asks him to meet him at the old ramen shop in downtown Shibuya. Originally he rejects the offer, but he says he'll pay for his meal and Atsumu waves Sakusa goodbye around noon to catch the train. Sakusa obviously ignores him, too focused on setting up their Sony TV that arrived earlier that morning.

The weather is astronomically chilly, he could probably carve a chicken nugget out of the air, it's so cold. Atsumu sticks his hands into his sweater, but he gets hot like global warming decided to snap it's finger and burn him to death. Fuck it all. He huffs to himself and finds Osamu sitting near the window seats facing the crowded city. The ramen shop is older, brown boards construct the exterior, a bridge connecting the top of the doorway as he enters. It's warm and cozy, the heat from outside and the warmth seeping from the walls tenderly taken care of remind him of home.

How the hell did Osamu find this place? Is there like a secret meeting between restaurant owners and they’re all overly acquainted with one another? A restaurant mafia? Atsumu slides into the empty chair to the right of Osamu. A smile irks the corner of his mouth, "I know what yer thinking. Stop thinking."

A waiter hands him a menu. "Jealous much?"

Osamu waves the waiter and mentions along the lines of a usual and Atsumu scams the menu and orders without second thought. "Don't be dumb." Osamu bites back, and flips his hat imprinted with the stitched lettering 'ONIGIRI MIYA'. Cute.

"What'd ya order?"

"Pork Tonkatsu Ramen and fatty tuna rolls." Osamu's nose twitches, weirdly.

"Are ya tryin' to empty my bank account?"

Atsumu shrugs, as a round of drinks are delivered to their seats. "I'm hungry. And it's not my bank account being rung dry."

"I fuckin' hate you."

"The feeling's mutual."

Then the silence dices up like small tomatoes and is scooped into a garden salad, fresh and prepared like fate. Too bad he doesn't like iceberg lettuce otherwise this would be a party. Osamu fiddles with the brim of the bill on his hat, Atsumu picks at the hanging nail on his thumb until their food arrives.

It turns out that Osamu orders Sesame Garlic Ramen and buys six extra pieces of gyoza glistening in crisp oil straight from the wok. They start eating in silence for a few minutes before Atsumu wipes off the red pepper broth from his lips and Osamu hands him a napkin with absolute disgust and it feels like he's not sitting with his brother anymore but Sakusa instead. He shudders and wishes to relinquish the memory buried in the hippocampus of his brain.

"Did'ja hear that Shouyou-kun is coming back."

Osamu slurps his noodles violently, hacking a million lungs on the seating table. He recovers quickly, wiping the back of his hand. "I did."

"How the fuck am I the last person to know everything?"

Osamu slowly chuckles, regaining his steady breathing from the sudden inhale of ramen. His brother could've died. Ok, and? "I'm not gonna answer that." Atsumu raises a spoon, and Osamu adds: "I don't know all the details, alright? Now drop the fuckin' spoon." He demands. The grip on the spoon loosens.

"Ah shit."

Osamu leans back, laughing like he won the lottery and was just given the world's largest fucking paycheck and a vacation to the Bermuda Triangle. "Hm?"

"Nothing."

*

Bokuto sits at the head of the table, normally their captain, Meian would be in his place but Bokuto had already arrived beforehand and set up the space like a large classroom and they were his students listening to his lecture. He even supports a pair of black thick-rimmed square glasses that Atsumu is pretty sure has a prescription and belonged to Akaashi. They make his ghostly-wide eyes even brighter in the reflection of the frame. A laser pointer in his hand, and he's surprised the captain hasn't jumped up to grab that out of his hand before he points it in someone's eye and blinds them.

Atsumu leans forward, as Meian looks up from his second cup of espresso, provided by Bokuto as well, "What's going on?" To which he breaks concentration from his caffeine and stares at it longingly.

"I just got here, as long as he doesn't trash the meeting room and there's free coffee, he can do what he wants." Meian licks his lips. At the espresso. And cracks open the plastic lid of what would be his third cup and dumps creamer.

"There's always free coffee."

Meian's bloodshot eyes pour into the depths of Atsumu's soul, he hasn't gotten a wink of sleep.

Sakusa files his already pampered nails for the third time this hour, Inunaki, their libero downs his Matcha Green Tea Frappuccino with tenacity and leans over to Thomas with his Matcha Green Tea Frappuccino breath and waves his phone around his face and makes a joke about how he should get a reverse haircut.

Good morning to him, Atsumu wistfully thinks. Bokuto clears his throat and shines the laser pointer amidst in their direction to catch their attention. Meian's sixth sense had been unleashed and he bounced up to snatch the laser pointer before Bokuto does blind someone.

"We are gathered here to discuss a very important matter." Bokuto announces, before giving a quick sour look to Meian. He spreads his arms out demonstratively like he's convincing them that the priceless heirloom wasn't fake. Spoiler alert, it's as real as Sakusa not washing his hands every ten minutes.

"Your lack of hygiene?" Sakusa.

Inunaki takes a break from tormenting Thomas who has the desired look in his eyes to kill him but kiss him. "Your ceaseless lack of filter?"

Bokuto crosses his arms, and begins to turn on the Smart Board, having been rolled in before any of them both arrived at the meeting room. "Wrong and wrong but also, rude!"

He presses the button on the remote he somehow attained. God, the staff needs to stop willingly giving Bokuto things he shouldn't have. "Atsumu's love life!" And a slide of Atsumu in a low-quality photo of the few times Bokuto had randomly chosen to take team photos while Atsumu and the rest of the team were extremely intoxicated appears dead center. "Or lack of, to be honest."

Atsumu scrunches his nose, "Ya had to choose that photo, my hair is a greasy mess."

Meian actually wants to commit murder, but the two photos of his daughter’s in the back pocket of his creased jeans hold him back. The only reason why Atsumu knows this is because he might've stolen a few bucks for tips when Atsumu forgot his wallet when they all went out. "You brought us into the meeting room at nine o'clock in the goddamn morning to discuss non-existent Atsumu's love life." He deadpans, tightening his grasp on the poor coffee cup.

"Hey."

Bokuto nods, holy shit he's actually serious. "He needs to get laid, Captain. He's also the most eligible and single if I may add." He wiggles his eyebrows obnoxiously, "Bachelor on our team."

"He's already in love with someone."

Sakusa looks up from the fifteenth slather of lotion he's applied to his hand. Thus chaos ensues. Bokuto backs into the board and it falls over, along with Bokuto. Meian yells, it doesn't help whatsoever and pours himself a fourth cup of coffee. Inunaki and Thomas play thumb wars and bet. He hears his name and that's about it. Sakusa returns to his lotion, the only source of hands on action he'll ever get.

It was way too early for this. Atsumu wants to go home.

*

He wakes up late. Sakusa doesn't bother knocking on his door and leaves for morning practice. Which is rude, he's deeply offended. Atsumu thought they had a connection, a connection of rice crackers and peanut butter on their couch while watching trashy movies. That being said, when his human alarm clock (see: the one and only Sakusa Kiyoomi) doesn't bang on his door to tell him to get the fuck up, he's only slightly offended.

But Atsumu moves on. The sun rises. Atsumu does too. Except the almost demonic leers and temptation creep and wrap around his back and he's stunned in place for a solid minute. Hinata Shouyou would be there, golden in the hours that sunlight lays a thin veil and like a fleeting moment perhaps Atsumu would feel something. Anything. His trachea shakes and throws itself neatly on display with no audience to witness his crucifixion.

("Are you actually in love?" Thomas asks, shoving Inunaki's face away from his personal space which no longer existed in the meeting room).

(Atsumu fixates on the piece of scone on the roof of his mouth, "Nope. I hope to keep my status as the handsomest, sexiest, most wanted and eligible bachelor on his team.")

(Sakusa snorts, a quiet one but Atsumu whips his head in glory. "I'm pretty sure that's not what Bokuto said.")

("Jealousy isn't a good color on you Omi-kun.")

("Says the one with mustard colored hair.")

("Cruel.")

*

Atsumu doesn't know what to think of Shouyou. He arrives late, an hour after he's expected to be present for his paperwork and registry. He comes hurtling into the gym at the maximum force similar to the Running of the Bull's. Suitcase in hand and Oakley sunglasses perched on the bridge of his nose that bounced as he walked down the small steps of stairs leading to the administration office and where Coach Forster's own office was located. A flourish of tangerine strands bustle in the lip-locked wind that whispers trivial beginnings. And then he's gone.

He can finally breathe and shoots Sakusa, a snarl/glare who only returns to his oral fixation of ignoring Bokuto. "Where's he going? Does he not wanna talk to us?" Bokuto shuts his mouth just to reopen it and appears wilted like a depressed, left out piece of lettuce.

"He can't step on the court without his weaver." Sakusa says, like he was bored and stayed at the party of three dumbwits (Sakusa included) gawking in the middle of the gym just to watch Bokuto's face transform into pure delight and childlike understanding.

"Oh, that's right." He seems to be regaining some brain cells from the tragic accident he must've had as a child to be groomed with such idiocy.

Shouyou, harbored and gently pressed onto the golden stage of Brazil, he wonders if he can still feel, still hear the ocean roaring in his ears, the sand gently tickling the bottom of his feet. How delicious warmth in the most delicate places feel from head to toe. 

Then an hour later, Shouyou steps onto the court, and God steps aside and the ball nearly slips from his hands as he gives a last set to the outside and Bokuto rams it to the left corner across the court. Manifested in the Black Jackals warm-up gears, tan in the warm atmosphere that hones watered down desperation overflowing in the tip of an iceberg that was once something. Now Atsumu doesn't know what to make of it and wallows in the middle of the sea, drowning until his lungs are filled with salt and he's coughing up ice chunks.

Shouyou's eyes brighten in the hedge of fog that disperses as he steps closer. "Atsumu-san." He dips his head in polite acknowledgement.

"Shouyou-kun. How was Brazil?"

Shouyou throws a short, meek laugh. Hot. He says, and then he glimpses at the court, eye swallowing every detail whole like he's retracing the steps he used to follow. "I guess you kept your end of the promise."

He blinks back. One day, I'm gonna set for you.

Yes. He remembers it. "But are you?" He echoes. The truth is, the declaration he's been keeping locked away for years was a one-sided confession to himself, before his heart was to be carved into small pieces and expected to be picked up by himself.

Well, are you, Hinata Shouyou?

*

Shouyou has grown in the last years he's last seen him standing on the other side, not as his teammate but as an enemy. He's also taller, which is expected when you stand in the clear of sunlight and may such growth rain on your bones and prosper you in a gentle, friendly choke-hold. He is not so scrawny, like a child hiding in the shadow away from the true spotlight of his old teammates, he nestles in the humble abode of his home— the court that lies in his wake.

So this is where you let him go right? The fact that you're hemmed in between the lines of imperfection and stitched into yearning, you haven't set yourself free yet.

"I know that look."

"Don't know what yer talkin' about." Atsumu replies absently, he's there, he's here but he’s not. Osamu pushes the brown bag of onigiri into his hands.

"Yer really terrible at this."

Atsumu whips up a phony smile, similar to the fake cheese you can dip your nachos into at the overcrowded food court in the mall. You take one dip and the smile really does itself to be realistic, and trick the eyes of those who dare to take a look inside. But the cheese is disgusting and Osamu curls his lips, "Fuck you." Atsumu adds. Just to brighten up the mood, and you know, spice it up. Because that's what he needs in his life right now.

"Like I said, absolutely terrible."

"Go and torment someone else 'Samu."

That's right, let Atsumu wallow in eternal punishment by God's hands, burned in the dimensional spaces of heaven and scorched in a space between purgatory and the strength of Atsumu's sacred hands buried into the hilt of a molten ball giving weight to freedom.

*

"What the fuck is going on?"

Sakusa's face is shoved into a thick cooking book with Martha Stewart in the front, bound in a sealed elastic cover of it, smiling with pearly, overly white teeth holding a cake that's probably a) fake and b) a cake she did not cook. But Sakusa seems to be fascinated by the fine print of whatever recipe he's reading.

He actually takes the time from enjoying the unbridled senses of foreign literature and gives Atsumu a good stare before he answers. "We're cooking here, throw on an apron." At the exact moment, he points behind him where a pink, flowery apron adorned in red carnations carefully stitched on the pockets.

Atsumu wants to throw the apron at his face and hopes it'll explode in his face or an unexplained phenomenon will occur and Atsumu will just shrug and shake his head. It doesn't happen, and he pinches the apron almost repugnant. "There's no fuckin' way I'm wearin' that shit."

"I never asked for your opinion."

"I didn't know you liked to bake." Atsumu pets the bag of flour sitting idly, waiting to be used while Sakusa analyzes the fucking cookbook.

"Got bored."

Atsumu slouches forward, "Or maybe is it that your sudden interest in the fine arts is because you're tryin' to impress someone." He wiggles his eyebrows, hitting his head on the palm of his hand, it hurts. Sakusa displays not even an ounce of sympathy and slams the front cover at Atsumu's face.

He stumbles back a foot or so, but good enough for Sakusa. "Should you really be weaseling your way into other people's lives, and focus on your series of dilemma's."

"So you admit it, Omi-kun is in love." He coos. Sakusa shoots him a glare that even the eagles in the sky stop flying and turn in his direction in awe. "And I do not weasel." He throws in. Shut up, Sakusa seethes.

Atsumu puts on the apron. Sakusa ridicules him and pokes fun at him, Atsumu has physical evidence the universe is to get him. Sakusa makes him crack eggs, that was your only job, you only had one fucking job Sakusa says when he breaks half of the carton. Atsumu gives him the most charming smile he can conjure of thin nothingness and forgery.

"I am actually going to murder you."

"Bring it on Omi-kun."

They end up making chocolate chip cookies, despite all the splendid wondering Sakusa pretentiously did through the cookbook, it's simple and under Sakusa's supervision, not that he needed it, the oven doesn't burn or the fire department isn't called for immediate dispatch. The cookies turn up decent, and taste better than they look. Sakusa is the one who suggests they offer it to the team and Atsumu smirks quizzically but keeps his mouth shut.

Bokuto eats half of them, Sakusa slightly smiles and Atsumu could just sit there and tear open a large popcorn and watch this terrible rom-com but when Shouyou tiptoes around the apartment he's sharing with Bokuto and sneaks a cookie, it's the reaction he anticipates. They're really good, like really delicious, he praises. His eyes swarm in fireflies swarming the midnight sky and oh, he wishes he could hold the moment in his arms and cradle his expression for years to come.

There's definitely something wrong with him.

*

Shouyou is magma cracking and bursting in the universe, raining down and the burns that surface the healing layers of Atsumu’s skin still won't heal. He waits for opportunity, even if it takes years to find him, but if it doesn't find him first, then he is the one who embarks on the journey towards discovery. It's a shame that Atsumu isn't there to warn him, he was there, but far too distant as he watches from the other side feeling only a little helpless.

Atsumu does not understand the way his body moves, or how it familiarizes itself in comfort around the team. He fits in easily, like slime contorting into the boxed container it was saran wrapped around a million of times, and expectancy took too many hits as Shouyou bounced around in the boxing cage of terrible probability setting him up for failure. Only expectancy takes a raw uppercut straight to the jaw and hobbles backwards. Shouyou is deemed the winner. Where does that take him next?

Sakusa is astoundingly confused by Shouyou's presence. Shouyou sticks to him, end of story. Bokuto and Shouyou become roommates, and develop a secretive language and bromance that Atsumu will never understand. They were already close in high school and Bokuto's influential tendencies may cause more mayhem. 

Meian teaches Shouyou how to successfully put clothes in the dryer, without breaking the only shared appliances in the whole apartment building. It's quite kind, since Meian is the only one, beside Barnes, who doesn't share or reside alone in the Black Jackal's apartment building that the foundation accommodates.

Through the next few weeks, he's more noticeable, well in Atsumu's eyes he's a firecracker shooting up in the sky when it's not the Sumidagawa Fireworks Festival spelling out 'fight me in the swimming pool and let's play marco polo'. Shouyou is putting himself out there, letting himself be known. I know you're here, can you see me. I'm right here in front of you.

You settle in the dearest curves of matter, expelling the rumbles that wrench open your arteries with pliers, dusty from your dad's wood shop. Sawdust enters your eyes, and you are blinded. Be careful where you step, it's the blind leading the blind, but you allow yourself to hold on. That's all you have left.

*

He remembers when he was young, just a small naive child who's only real concern was what they were going to have for dinner and how to get Osamu's greasy chubby fingers off his Gundam action figures. They eat pickled cucumbers and mackerel that night, Atsumu slides his plate onto Osamu's. Who notices after the amount of pickled cucumbers begin to pile up and they engage in a fist fight and tugging of the hair. Atsumu bears a Totoro band-aid on his left cheek and an identical one is placed on Osamu's nose, which is also bleeding.

It bleeds, Atsumu cries, and then laughs, they're children, and the closest cuss word Osamu could muster from his dry flaky, kindergartner lips licked too many times from the salted pretzels they were forced to share for snack was 'meanie'. Atsumu could look back until he's seated and the solidarity of the metal chain tucks him in for the roller coaster that he did not sign up for. The roller coaster has loops, twists and turns that jerk him until his heart spits out of his throat and he peers from the swoop above to see his heart on the ground as people trample around. It sucks because well that was his heart, you can't get another one. It's not like Atsumu can continue on his merry way to the nearest heart transplant center and request a new heart. Perhaps someone can fill the void before the darkness fills to the bitter top and he succumbs to true defeat.

Osamu grows up. He goes through puberty. His voice gains four octaves, Atsumu bullies him for a while until Osamu dances on the pool table with the physical announcement of a growth spurt in middle school. He dyes his hair grey, and claims he's freeing himself from further being stigmatized for look alike.

("We're twins, what the fuck do ya expect?" Atsumu says, by now both of them are well enlightened with a few cuss words).

(Osamu knows a lot more cuss words than he lets on).

From there, it's different, mature. But juvenile enough that after school, while you're waiting for your friends for volleyball you hunch together in a small crowd and trade Pokemon and fight Osamu over his Ultra Necrozma. You are only children, love is not a foreign language to you but you aren’t articulate enough to speak fluently in the hushed whispers and meaningful looks like your parents exchange. One day, you will wake up and pain will tear you apart, you will wake up and be able to speak the language that love folds delicately in your mouth.

*

"You know, I don't know you that well after all." Atsumu remarks, two days later as Osamu joins him on the one too many bar stools that Sakusa impulsively bought at Ikea. He was not there during that catastrophe but judging from Bokuto's flood of Instagram stories, it was... interesting.

Osamu gives him a dumb look, well it's more of a 'yer the dumb one' look but he supposes it can be applied mutually. "Is yer brain okay?"

"Is yer brain okay?"

"Don't repeat my question."

Atsumu rolls over, probably bringing the whole army of fuzz and dust collected on the marble counter along with him. "But I actually don't know anything about you." He insists.

"Are ya actually dumb? Yer my brother, ya literally everything about me."

"Except yer love life."

Oh. He's stumped him. Good.

"That's personal." and then: "I don't have one."

"Except for maybe onigiri." Osamu's face goes cross like he inhaled a hundred avocados. Or something like that.

He doesn't wiggle his way into Osamu's privacy, but it's enough. Osamu threatens not to bring the next fresh batch of Konbu onigiri tomorrow and Atsumu begs for forgiveness. But sorrow spreads like a disease, slowly but surely over Osamu, it's inaudible but he recognizes it. You're like me aren't you brother?

*

Things are different, but the same simultaneously. Atsumu breathes, eats, and inhales volleyball like it's the last meal on earth. Bokuto continues to pursue a dangerous mission of stealing strawberry pop tarts from their kitchen. He battles fiercely and loses, sometimes. Sometimes, he gives him a pop tart out of spite for himself and for Bokuto when his mood grows ejected and sour. He has to keep all his hitters in line, make sure that they're all in top condition and none of them are slipping from behind him.

But Shouyou, he falls. He hurtles from the clouds and bounces through air until the universe can no longer hold him up with it's now questionable strength. The pliable core of the earth liquefies like quicksand and the moment Shouyou plummets like the archangel from the dark heavens, earth swallows him whole. Atsumu asks for repentance, doesn't hear back from God and assumes that he's lost him forever.

"Shouyou-kun."

Atsumu approaches him while he's knotting his shoes, mismatches laces, one orange and the other of dense umber, the unfitting contrast resonates with him as he's perplexed. "Atsumu-san, drop the honorific."

He grins, falling back against the clattering beauty of the metal pressed cool against his back. "Only if you do the same." Shouyou expertly ties the last knot of his orange shoelace. "Shouyou." There, you are one millimeter closer, does this mean you deserve a solid pat on the back?

"Atsumu." Then he breaks into an unshakable smile and Atsumu wants to smash his forehead into the array of luxurious lockers waiting at his disposal.

"Tell me more about Rio."

*

Atsumu's memory never ceases to fail him. He can't remember the first time he decided volleyball wasn't as horrendous as he originally thought and willingly picked up a holy altar he would later worship everyday and crave the warmth that others cannot bring him. The volleyball fits into the palm of his hand too well, too perfect like it's an illusion and Atsumu is living it fulfilling the destiny he was never entitled to find out. But he does. And so does Osamu. His parents capture the day, two brothers clasping hands at the odds of sharing a passion for the same sport. Broken teeth, sweaty knees hungrily broken down beneath black knee pads scarping fortitude and a future of dedication.

He's sure of one thing, the spiral and relief he easily seizes once the ball chooses to release and rises above all and comes down crashing like a meteorite.

His parents were never big on athletics. His father tried to get Atsumu to join the soccer club in middle school. But he's already signed the non-closure agreement to his altar, their altar. But you, Shouyou, where is your altar located? Is it the whining promises shadowed behind your old past that isn't as much as a past but a pledge to the better half of you. Is it the stories you do not wish to share under the scent of burning firewood and campfire songs, in an alternate universe of rubber ducks and terrible water supply where your feet hit the sand and you built a new home. Without informing Atsumu. But it's not your job, it's not Atsumu's business.

Osamu tries out for the track club, just to seek his father's satisfaction and be placed on the good side of him. He does well, letting his lilthe legs that expanded into a single pine tree hanging on loose commitment and unrest. He's decent, actually pretty good at it. Until he scrapes his knee and Atsumu tells him to never stop on the track field again. Because you needed him right? To feel complete.

("Don't be a baby." And his eyes glitter in settled wrath, "Would you miss me, if I decided not to play volleyball." He asks, they're first years in High school, Atsumu is assured he will persevere and is loudly making his way to victory).

("Never." He swore, but deep down, you're greedy. Atsumu is power hungry and driven but not as driven as Shouyou as he takes the stick shift gears of the Porsche and drives straight into the sea of Gondolas in the Grand Canals of Venice).

*

Since it's already been established that change has bestowed the great levels of hellfire and the MSBY Black Jackals, Shouyou is the missing counterfeit perfectly inserted into the slot machine and Atsumu pushes the red foam lever and numbers brazenly appear before him.

He's not the same god (he is not to be mindlessly matched to that name). Wait for it. Then you will see. He is an adult, just like him.

Atsumu returns to Excalibur hanging above before his demise. His demise is worth watching, if he's lucky then he can score his whole family front row tickets to the show, he will be the laughing stock and Excalibur will wink in it's mysterious, alluring ways that lead Atsumu here in the first place. Shouyou steps onto the platform yanking Excalibur out of mid-air and the sky bows obscurely.

"...Atsumu?"

He wipes his mouth with the hem of his shirt, resting his water bottle. "Yeah?"

"Why do you think I came back?" and his throat shakes, like he's uneasy in the overwhelming clownery of Atsumu Miya, setter of the Black Jackals. "To Japan."

Immersing himself into the small capacity of the water bottle sounds ridiculously tempting. "Home sick?"

He shakes his head. No that's not it his eyes purrs. He shuffles back, no one notices not even Shouyou.

"Were the guys in Brazil that terrible at volleyball?"

Did you miss me? He wants to ask, bite your tongue he scolds. "No, it was fun. I think you would've liked it." Shouyou takes a sip of his own water bottle, sweat drenching his cheeks, who knew sweat could procure such brilliant features and he can carve a smiley face on the edges of the miniature dimples looming over.

"What was it then?" Atsumu shrugs, and Shouyou exhales, staring down at the dips and lines that make up the stars of his hands.

"There was something always holding me back. I thought by leaving, I would be able to create my own path. But now, there was something I had left behind here."

Shouyou closes his eyes, and Atsumu follows. Or he tries really hard even pretends for a fraction of a second and lets the earth swallow them both. What use is it, he's already been slain by Excalibur. Is there anything truly left for him.

*

"Are ya gonna ask him out?"

An eye opener, both figuratively and literally as Atsumu opens an eye out towards Osamu, who's sitting on the couch he and Sakusa share. He's already vacuumed the furniture and he's certain Sakusa is going to pack all of Atsumu's belonging's and drop his ass off at the curb and say bye-bye.

"Now, why the hell would I do that?" In other terms it chants 'come closer so I punch you in the face'.

"'Cause it's disgusting watching you grovel over Shouyou-kun and I'm in desperate need of twenty bucks."

"'Samu."

"'Tsumu."

The doorbell rings. And Atsumu jumps up to greet the pizza delivery guy. Osamu mumbles something about how he's never been more excited about pizza. Well fuck you, I love pizza he mumbles.

They stuff their mouths with hot, oily Tomato, basil pizza, and half mushroom for Osamu which is just nasty. Eating in silence is becoming more frequent, and Atsumu welcomes silence.

*

When he announced to his family that he won't be taking over the family industry, he expects two reactions none of which he receives. The first is the loud dramatic sobs chipping from parts of their personality Atsumu inherited. The second is rejection, the feeling of betrayal that he isn't staying home, in Hyogo and choosing to apply to smaller, more communal colleges in their area. They knew about the offers but it's not like he openly offered to talk about his future while his mother prays for their well being and his father's old age.

But through the thick and the thin his mother chortles regally, like she expected it all along and his big secret wasn't so big in the eyes of the mother who raised and knew him from every bone and muscle he implemented from the day he could walk.

"I don't suppose there would be a secret third twin you've been hiding that could help take over the family business?" His father teased. Atsumu grips the table cloth, restraining from tugging the whole table and flipping it upside down. Stay, he belittles himself.

"Yer talkin' like that again." Atsumu laughs, neglecting the swishing around his stomach.

_Like you're going to drop off the face of the earth and leave us, leave mom._

His father chuckles, pushing up his spectacles, round lenses that he's worn since he could remember. "It must be old age catching up to me."

His mother takes his hand, and rubs his head harshly, it's the words behind the gesture that matter more. "Wherever you go, we will follow you close behind and support your decision."

Atsumu Miya, still naive, but built with stronger knees that can hold himself up, Osamu who decides to trade the knee pads in the back of his closet for an apron and opens up his own Onigiri shop. What other exchanges do you secretly distribute? Atsumu is the one holding back, and he wishes for it to stay that way.

*

Bokuto returns. Atsumu wants to throw him out. But he can't. He's already done that enough times that he's used up all out his out-of-jail cards and so Bokuto happily sits on the love sofa, sprawled with not a care in a world and in an chilled ice-pack not meant for cooling your forehead on his face. Sakusa fans himself with a tacky plastic fan they bought at the convenience store, the air conditioning is busted through out the whole building and while the weather wasn't melting temperature the humidity tickled him and left him reaching for his third bottle of Pocari.

Sakusa opens the fridge, learns that there's only one bottle left. "Stop drinking all the Pocari."

"Buy more."

"No. it's your turn to go shopping."

It's so fucking hot, with three grown men sweating their eyeballs out, the radio turned up high, weird jazz ballads playing softly that Sakusa like and he doesn't argue. Those are the type of question you do not ask if you want to wake being a dismembered body in the morning.

The smacking noises from Bokuto as he devours his fifth strawberry pop tarts. The sound of the cardboard box, "It's empty." He sounds disappointed, like he just arrived to find that someone eat them all.

"Yeah because ya ate them all asshole."

Bokuto sticks out his tongue, leans back again on the couch and replaces the ice pack onto his forehead. He moves onto the Brown Sugar Cinnamon pop tarts and the noises begin again. Sakusa's hand twitches in aggravation, but he holds back. Why?

"Hey 'Tsm-Tsm?"

"What?"

"Are you in love with him?"

He spins around, catching whiplash in a full rotation. "Shut up and eat yer damn pop tarts."

But Bokuto musters on, tapping his chin thoughtfully. "You could go for it. Confess."

Sakusa snorts, but hides behind his Julia Child's Mastering the Art of French Cooking cookbook like a coward. "Now why would I do that?"

"You've been different, since he came. But it's a good different."

He thinks about Shouyou shining in natural beatifications that not even God could be capable of creating. He throws him another box of Strawberry pop tarts he'd been stashing behind his back. He sits right up, as the box sits him square in the chest. Would you be able to handle it, you ask. Are you scared? No, not just yet. 

*

They return to the round table of inescapable fortunes. Only thankfully, Bokuto does not sit at the head of the table and there are no dangerous items near his reach that could cause mass destruction or the next infamous Go Fish tournament that results in a screaming match between Inunaki and Thomas. They sit at a cheap mid-way bar in the downtown streets of Ebisu, cold and husk but the beer in Atsumu’s hands warm and brisk says otherwise. 

Together they celebrate a simple win, another game won in their favor with Shouyou as the front runner, star gazing in the fields of Hyogo, running across the ocean of misinterpretations and Atsumu drinks faster. “Slow down.” Meian says, a clink of glass as it’s placed on the hard surface. 

Go faster, he urges. 

You celebrate for yourself, your pity party and it looks like the guest list is all present. You should clink your beer glass like it's fancy champagne and you are gathering the attention of hundreds to listen to your grand speech. “Is it a lover's quarrel?” Inunaki pops his head, dragging Thomas along with him. His cheeks rosy with distilled happiness as he reaches out and touches Atsumu’s cheeks and asks him if he models. 

“Is he drunk?” 

Inunaki and his whiskey tasting voice replies, “just a little tipsy.” And they disappear into the few booths Meian has reserved. 

Then Shouyou emerges from the dance floor, out of breath and in sight. Breathless and soaring high as he says, “Dance with us.” 

Beside him is a coerced Sakusa, who’s shriveled up like a mushroom with a half empty watered down beer. Bokuto is loud, and hungry as he snatches the plastic bowl of Squid Tempura off the table. Orange and red lights bounce erratically around the bar, but it’s quieter, not as much action. The dance floor is more an empty space in front of their booths where Bokuto and Shouyou flail their arms in a sacrifice toward their terrible dancing skills.

“Are the rumors true?” Meian asks above the whispered shouts (yes that’s possible) of his teammates and other diners in the bar. 

Atsumu orders another round. Meian fixes the collar of his shirt. “I don’t know what yer talking abt.” 

“You don’t?”

“Nope.” 

“Ah. My apologies.” 

(You should tell him. You can trust him right). 

*

Atsumu wanted to fly at one point in his life. To some above the earth and watch people from unreachable heights and wave down below as they look up in confusion. He could smile and try shooting straw wrappers through his straw to see where it lands. If it lands in his home, then that’s where he would return. If it lands in the middle of fucking Antarctica, he would be one with the penguins and learn new ways to adapt. Adopt. That’s what he did best. His praises have adopted a new concept and carries across an empty promise and never return. 

To fly you have to believe, to believe in the unknown. You have to be pious to the sun and he finds Shouyou bathing in sunlight, sitting on the steps of the apartment building. Faltering and crumbling with lack of care. He wonders if the weather gets as bad as it did in Rio. Did God despise you so much, that not by choice but by fate we were brought together? 

You wallow, but is there a certain routine you’re supposed to follow. Eat, breathe and sleep volleyball to begin. That’s a good start. How many issues can he count on his fingers, he gets to five and gives up. But admitting defeat, he’s been past this statue of limitation. Only the limit is a yellow hazard line that prevents you from finding the truth. 

Atsumu tests the water and meekly puts his foot in. Oh. It’s you. Hinata Shouyou.

*

Time is a state of mind. His mother once told him. If you become too caught up by the fear you run away from, then the past will be brought to a halt and the future will sock you in the cheek and spin you around. Those weren't her exact words, he liked to exaggerate. 

Today, he doesn’t know how much time has passed but he knows that Onigiri Miya is open from eight in the morning until six in the afternoon and makes a spur of the moment stop. He’s been inside a few times. First at the grand opening, when Osamu promised free samples. Second when he helped him lug over crates of edamame and salmon onigiri for a catering. The front door bells dingle a light teasing melody. 

Midori, the high schooler from one of the neighboring schools in the district is cleaning up, and he thinks she’s cute. But is she Shouyou? Don’t ask me that. She notices Atsumu and offers a friendly offer, “ah, Atsumu-san, are you here for Osamu-San? He’s in the back finishing up.” 

He thanks her and she blushes a little. Osamu swings the door open and Midori disappears into the back: “see you tomorrow!” And acknowledges Atsumu once more. 

“Are ya hungry, I was in the middle of cooking some fatty tuna onigiri.” 

His stomach erupts like fighter jets and Osamu ties his apron around his waist. And Atsumu finds a seat across from Osamu giving him a birds eye view of the kitchen. Fingers clattering against the laminate counter. 

“Don’t ya have practice?” 

“It’s almost seven ‘Samu.” 

Osamu laughs, clearly having lost time. “Is it.” He whistles, as he grills the salmon the sizzling pan. “Time passes by quickly.” 

“Oh god. You sound like dad.” 

Time pass as there is a lull and Osamu continues to off-key whistle the Naruto theme song with inadequate accuracy. 

“Love.” Osamu says suddenly. “Is a fickle thing. I don’t know how the hell our parents did it.” 

Love. He hasn’t heard Osamu say that word before. “Well I suppose after ten years, it gets old.” 

“Nah.”

Osamu begins wrapping the rice and seaweed with careful precision that comes from the years of handling a volleyball. Years of earnest practice. 

“Love is complicated.” 

Atsumu bows on his elbows, curious now. “Speaking from personal experience?”

Osamu grunts, setting the now steaming plate of onigiri. All is forgotten and he glistens at the sight of heaven. “Itadakimasu.” He mumbles. 

Yes. Silence. This is what’s best. But what comes after silence is a mystery. And not even Atsumu can solve the puzzle. 

*

Yes. You are here now. Elated on several paths that may or may not be right for you. It’s up to you to choose. 

Shouyou. Who earns a spot in your new found heart graciously collected by others who took it upon them to waste their time and sew back together the salvageable parts and with the new parts, he is reborn. 

*

It’s a miracle isn’t it? 

*

“Do you mind if I join you?” 

Shouyou hangs back on the steps, behind Atsumu. If this was a horror movie, Shouyou would creep up and shove a knife into his back, blood, gore it gets boring after a while. But he’s wrong again and life’s full of delirious surprises. 

“Go ahead.” Atsumu replies. A tentative, shed of a hesitant whisper. The golden dawn is impressive, at a moment where Atsumu is forced to rely on the universe the most. 

They sit on opposite sides almost like years ago, when Shouyou was a fireball shy in years of experience. Atsumu needs to know what to do next, where goes he stand. Shouyou has already found a place. And it’s just him remaining. 

“Shouyou, I—” 

Shouyou inched closer. “I know.” 

Oh, you do? He’s catching fireflies in his eyes, glowing in the deepest darkest edges of the sunset, his back is growing stiff against the steps and his legs still ache from practice. 

Calloused hands expand upon the universe and collapse as their own. You are somewhat junctioned and shot into the middle of nowhere. But you have no reason to be afraid you are not alone. 

*

Oh, and when you find that person who makes love complicated, never let them go. You won’t, you promise. And he does, keep his promise forever close to him. Where are you, Atsumu calls out. 

Shouyou takes his hand. I am here. 

**Author's Note:**

> welcome. i would like to begin the story with me... sititng in bed pondering abt what to write. i was stumped, ive written many future fics for this ship now, and writing one more over an alternate universe seemed better for me in my opinions. I sat just looking up at the ceiling eating honey barbeque fritos and then this idea came to me. 
> 
> I feel that in all my atshn fics I convey some scenes of miya bro soft moments. well think of this as the ultimate fic where osamu is all knowning and atsumu just pines. good for him. I wrote this in a heavy fever dream over the past week bc i procrastinate and this fic is light. There is also comedic relief, more than usual. I had fun writing the Black Jackals for that specific scene. hehe. They are chaotic and i hope to write them more in the far near upside down future. also the dad is very much alive in this one oop
> 
> I dont have anything else to say, but if you liked this, feel free to comment or kudos i would really appreciate it! comments keep me join and i love reading what you all have to say :)  
> until next time which will be soon. or not who knows i am but a worm on a string. 
> 
> Follow me on my main for more atsuhina updates: @sarahartzzz or follow me on my writing twt: @atsuhinass_


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